The Family Life of Sherlock Holmes
by Ms Sherlock Holmes
Summary: Holmes never speaks of his family. When the Great Detective receives an invitation to spend a week at his parents' house, Watson soon finds out why his friend has kept his silence on the matter.
1. Chapter 1

**Warning: there may be some unintentional OOC. Please forgive me if that occurs.**

My friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, as explicit as he can be in regards to his cases when explaining them, rarely speaks of his past and of his family. The only thing he has ever told me of his relatives was that he has an older brother named Mycroft. As both his friend and his biographer, I can assure the reader that Holmes's silence on the matter was increasingly frustrating for me. How can one be friends with a person and write about them and know so little about them? I had come to the point where I was certain Holmes would remain forever reserved on the topic, so I was a bit more than surprised with the event I will now describe to the reader.

We were sitting together smoking our pipes at our lodgings on Baker Street on a fine May afternoon when our landlady Mrs Hudson appeared to us carrying an envelope. She wordlessly gave it to Holmes and retreated. I lazily watched my friend tear the envelope open and pull out a sheet of paper, no expression on his features so far. That soon changed when his eyes widened and his already pallid skin turned a shade whiter as he read. I leaned forward in my chair, my instincts as a friend taking over.

"Holmes?" I asked tentatively. "Is everything all right?"

He gave a start, as if he had forgotten my presence, and seemed reluctant to answer. I gave him a gentle smile, hoping to encourage him to reveal what was evidently bothering him.

"It's, ah, nothing," Holmes replied hastily. "Nothing at all, Watson."

I sighed inwardly, so my friend would not see. It did not take the Science of Deduction to see that something has agitated him. I may not, as Holmes likes to put it, observe but I am not blind. Besides, I have been always far more adept at the matters of the heart than he has ever been.

Holmes, thinking that I have dropped the subject, returned to his letter. A wicked idea crossed my mind and it was one that I knew might have been the equivalent of a suicide mission. I stood up and feigned approaching the window by Holmes's chair before plucking the letter out of his hand in one swift movement. Holmes let out a cry that was a mixture of shock and indignation, and he chased me around the sitting room. I managed to slip past him and rushed upstairs, my friend close at my heels. I stumbled inside my room and successfully closed the door in Holmes's face, locking it. Breathing heavily, I listened to him trying his hardest to turn the doorknob.

"Watson!" Holmes exclaimed angrily, now pounding fiercely on the door. "Come out with that letter this instant!"

I said nothing. Holmes attempted once more to force his way in before storming off. Knowing that I only had a few minutes until he returned with those infamous lock picks of his, I hastily read the short letter.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_It has been years since we have seen you. God only knows what you have been truly up to. Therefore, we expect to have you home for the next week, no ifs, ands, or buts. We have enclosed two train tickets inside the envelope for you and a friend if you wish to bring someone. The train will leave King's Cross at 9 a.m. on Saturday. We will send someone to meet you at you at your destination when you'll arrive._

_See you Saturday,_

_Mother and Father_

As I processed this information, I heard the faint clicking sounds of a lock being fiddled with. Shaking my head, I dropped the letter on my bed before unlocking the door and opening it. Holmes, caught unaware, stumbled inside and collided into me. My injured leg gave way at the sudden impact, sending us both tumbling to the ground with my friend falling on top of me.

We both lay there for quite some time as the surprise slowly ebbed away. Holmes was naturally the first to recover, for he scrambled to his knees, bracketing my hips with them, and pinned my arms down with his hands.

"The letter," Holmes hissed. "Where is it?"

"Does it matter? I know of its contents," said I.

His grey eyes widened once more. "You – You've read it?"

"I have. My dear Holmes, what is so horrifying about parents wanting to see their child?"

Holmes, looking resigned, released my arms and merely sat on my hips. I propped myself onto my elbows and watched him expectantly.

"They… do not approve of my trade. They believe it to be something fanciful, like a child desiring to become a pirate or a hero. My parents have always wished for me to become a lawyer. They had set that expectation soon after Mycroft has earned his position in the British government. They had been so proud of him, and wanted me to go far as well. You can imagine their disapproval when I had refused to study law in college. They were furious," Holmes told me, slightly crestfallen.

"But you _have_ gone far. There is not a single person in all of Britain who does not know your name," I reminded him.

Holmes shook his head.

"That has not appeased Mother and Father. They could not understand how such a line of work could attract so much attention," said he. "After I had told them I would not pursue the career of their dreams, their disappointment in me was so great that I could not stand it. I packed my things one night while they slept and escaped to London."

"Good heavens, Holmes! You left your home behind simply because your parents were disappointed that you were following your dreams instead of theirs?"

"It wasn't as simple as that, Watson! They had continuously guilt-tripped me for weeks before I had decided to move out. I could not take it anymore to the point where I had no desire to let them know where I was going."

"I take it you left no note?"

"Precisely. I only revealed my location to them when the police's search reached the City. But I had warned my parents against visiting me. For the first time in my life, they had complied with my wishes."

"How old were you when this occurred?"

"I was twenty years of age."

"Goodness! Are you telling me that you haven't seen you mother and father in _twenty years_?"

"You are _scintillating_ this morning, Watson."

I ignored the sarcasm. "Holmes, you must go to them this weekend. Patch things up with them; they've apparently let go of what has happened," I advised him.

My friend laughed humourlessly. "I can honestly say that I deeply doubt it. Those two are notorious grudge holders," he replied. "I have no interest in going, my dear Watson."

"I have worked that out for myself, thanks. But why not, Holmes? This is your chance to make peace with them."

"This is also an opportunity to receive the full force of the rage they have been storing up for the last two decades. Visit them? I think not."

At that moment I suddenly remembered something that had been written in the letter.

"If you like, I could accompany you. Your parents have declared that you can bring someone with you on your visit," I suggested, treading carefully.

Holmes blinked then gave a small smile. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?" he asked amusedly. "That you actually want to come with me to Southampton and meet my parents?"

I wanted to answer but I was becoming more and more distracted by the numbing sensation in my legs.

"Er, Holmes, you are cutting off the blood circulation in my legs," I calmly informed him. "Could you –?"

"Oh! My apologies, Watson," Holmes replied, giving a small start.

"No worries, old boy," I said as my friend scrambled off of me and onto his feet. "No worries at all."

He smiled and offered his hand. I took it and stood up with his help. The blood rushed back into my legs, making me stagger, and I fell flat on my back onto the bed. Holmes laughed and joined me. We stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, listening to each other's breathing.

"I will go," Holmes said softly, "only if you accompany me, Watson. I cannot face my parents alone."

"My dear fellow, I would be delighted," I assured him happily, surprised to see that he has agreed.

"Capital. I think they will appreciate that I am at least friends with a respectable doctor."

I felt my heart warm up at the rare compliment. "I'm sure they'll appreciate everything about you."

"You can only hope, Watson. You can only hope."

**Ok, I've got a question for you guys: would you like to see a bromance or a romance between Holmes and Watson? I'm having trouble choosing between the two because I like both. Let me know which you would like in the review section and I'll decide from there :)**


	2. Chapter 2

The train was speeding its way through the countryside on early Saturday morning. The sun was shining high and bright in the brilliant blue sky, and there was not a single cloud in sight. However, the positive weather outside did not match the atmosphere inside.

Holmes and I were sharing a first-class carriage – how generous of his parents to accommodate us so – but only one of us was relaxed. My friend, who was sitting in front of me, was seated with his limbs crossed so tightly that I almost feared he would be entangled that way forever. He kept his gaze fixed at the window so he did not notice me migrate towards the seat next to his until I placed my hand on his knee. Holmes sharply turned to me, his face an unreadable mask.

"Everything will be fine, my dear Holmes," I said gently. "You'll see."

"I have little faith, Watson," Holmes replied flatly. "I am not looking forward to this visit, and to think it has a duration of seven days!"

"I will be with you every step of the way. You are not alone."

"I know. I am forever indebted to you for this, my friend."

"Think nothing of it. I am glad to be here."

Holmes nodded. Now that I was sitting close to him, I noticed dark shadows underneath his eyes and he appeared exhausted. I felt a small pang of pain for him; this visit was truly affecting him.

"You haven't slept very much last night," I declared.

My friend smiled weakly. "An excellent observation, Watson."

"Why don't you lie down on the bench and get some sleep? I will wake you when we arrive."

"Watson…"

You cannot appear on your parents' doorstep looking as if you are on the verge of death! Sleep, Holmes; it'll help."

Instead of answering or listening to my medical advice, Holmes averted his eyes to my hand, which was still resting on his knee. I tore my hand away but Holmes quickly grasped it. I stared at him, unsure of what to think.

"It's… comforting," Holmes said awkwardly.

He looked away, but not before I saw a slight flush colour his cheekbones, as if he had just confessed something embarrassing. I smiled, an idea crossing my mind.

"Would you like to lean against me as you sleep? You can rest your head on my shoulder," I suggested, almost bracingly.

Holmes looked at me again. He seemed to be having an internal battle, struggling to decide to whether let his pride or his basic human need win. Eventually, the need triumphed and he slid towards me. He placed himself comfortably against me, his head on my shoulder, and I put an arm around him. He was a little tense, making it clear that he was feeling slightly awkward. He kept his eyes open for quite some time as I simply looked out the window.

Finally, Holmes fell asleep, the tension leaving his body as he allowed himself to rest. I used my free arm to join our hands together, rubbing soothing circles in the palm of my friend's hand.

* * *

We arrived in Southampton in the middle of the afternoon. Holmes had slept soundly, and it had taken a few tries in order to wake him. He followed me bleary-eyed onto the platform, where we retrieved our luggage.

"You look much better, old boy," I told him truthfully.

"I reluctantly admit that I feel better as well," Holmes replied, a little sleepily. "Thank you, my dear Watson. You make a comfortable pillow."

I chuckled. "Anything for a friend."

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

We turned around. A stout man stood behind us, looking as if he had better things to do with his time than to escort two gentlemen to a specified destination. He was regarding us with an expression akin to disapproval, though what he could be possibly disagreeing with was anything beyond my imagination.

Holmes, however, seemed to have more of an inkling, for he brushed away invisible specks of dust and tried to appear even more professional than he already did.

"That would be me," he said coolly. "This is my friend, Dr. Watson."

"Yes, your parents have mentioned there would be two of you," the man replied indifferently. "Follow me, if you please."

My friend grimaced behind our guide's back as we gathered our luggage and followed him to a cab. We settled ourselves in and we were soon whisked away down the winding roads of Southampton. Needless to say, it was a quiet journey with Holmes sulking in his corner and our unnamed companion ignoring us completely.

After what had felt like hours of travelling we pulled into a long driveway. The vast estate was composed of never-ending rolls of emerald-green grass and trees. As I admired the land, the house came into view and I could not refrain myself from gasping in awe. The building was a mansion, and every inch of it screamed that its tenants lived a _very_ wealthy lifestyle.

"Holmes!" I breathed, leaning towards him. "You have never told me that you are from a rich family!"

"What is there to tell?" said he, shrugging. "It is nothing out of the ordinary."

"But, _Holmes_ –"

"Drop it, Watson."

There was a cutting edge to his voice that made me fall silent. Now that we were only moments away from meeting his parents, my friend's nerves must have been overwhelming thus making him irritable. I let him be by looking out the window on time to see the cab slow to a stop in front of the mansion's main entrance. Our guide jumped out of the carriage and we followed him.

"Grab your luggage, gentlemen, and come with me," he said clinically.

We complied, and our companion led the way into the house. He instructed us to leave our baggage in the hallway, and he brought us into the sitting room. He firmly told us to wait there as he went to fetch the owners of the mansion. I cannot say I was sorry to see him go; I was under the impression that this was as cheerful this man would get.

Holmes and I seated ourselves upon the settee. As I permitted my eyes to scour the room, I noticed that a tremor was racking through Holmes's entire being. I frowned; I had never seen my friend so nervous. I was starting to suspect that there may have been more to Holmes's story than he had let on.

I reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. He looked at me, anxiety as plain as day on his face. What sort of people _were_ his parents, if they could drag out such emotions from him? I was beginning to feel apprehensive myself.

Suddenly, a pristine couple entered the room. At that moment I received an idea on why my friend's nerves were being stretched to a breaking point: both parents were standing with a frightening rigidity and not a single hair was out of place. Their luxurious clothing was pressed to a perfection, and they bore the identical cold mask Holmes famously wears in my accounts of his cases. _I_ was feeling nervous by simply being in this couple's presence.

Holmes abruptly stood up, and I mimicked him. He wrung his hands and attempted to give the best smile he could muster. I glanced at him worriedly, wondering how I should address such elegant people.

"Watson," Holmes said demurely. "I would like to introduce you to William and Anita Holmes. My parents."


	3. Chapter 3

Holmes's features were a mixture of both his mother and father: he had his father's grey eyes, his height, his hawkish nose and his long fingers while he had inherited his mother's dark hair, her pale skin and her high cheekbones. I would have examined these minutiae further if the penetrating gazes of my friend's parents weren't piercing me so sharply.

"Mother, Father," Holmes said in a slightly strained voice. "This is my friend, Dr. John Watson."

"Yes, you have mentioned him in your response letter," Mrs Holmes said, approaching me. "It is a great pleasure to meet you, Doctor."

"The pleasure is mine," I replied, taking her offered hand and brushing it lightly with my lips as her husband joined her side.

"It is good of you to come, Dr. Watson," Mr. Holmes declared, shaking my hand. "Now maybe we can learn a thing or two about our son's life."

Holmes winced at his father's words. I felt another pang for my friend, for his discomfiture was terribly evident. I was under suspicion that if anyone could easily bring emotions out of Holmes, it was his parents.

"Your voyage was a pleasant one, we hope?" Mr. Holmes said calmly.

"It was," my friend replied. "We are very much obliged for the accommodations you have given us."

Mrs Holmes turned to her son. "We only give the _best_ to our children and their guests," she said, offering such a patronizing smile that I was beginning to believe that my friend had been correct when he had informed me his parents have not forgiven him for running away from them twenty years past.

Holmes nodded, evidently not wishing to say more. His father invited us to take our seat on the settee as he and his wife settled themselves into armchairs. A housekeeper came bustling in carrying a silver tray where sat a lovely tea set. She placed it on the table before us and wordlessly retreated to wherever she came from. Mrs Holmes poured us each a cup and eyed her son and me meticulously with her husband.

"So you are a doctor," said she, addressing me. "Where is your practice located?"

"It was in central London," I replied placidly, sipping my tea.

"'Was'?" Mrs Holmes's eyebrow shot upwards.

"I've sold my practice in order to be available to help your son with his cases. And write about them, of course."

"Hmm."

"We have read them. _All_ of your accounts," Mr. Holmes said stiffly. He turned to Holmes. "What are you trying to prove by having your – _adventures_ – published? Why persuade an innocent doctor to leave his noble profession and follow you around and write about what is a non-existing job? You are not even part of Scotland Yard!"

Well, that took no time at all. I refused to look at my friend, for I was not certain if I could handle either the pained look on his face or the cold mask, which would have been no better. They had just gotten their youngest child back; how can they be so cruel so soon?

"Actually, I am the one who volunteered," I interjected coolly. "Holmes here was reluctant of me writing and publishing his cases, and it took some time to convince him." _And now I know why_, I thought. "I am also the one who willingly sold my practice. Your son has never – and would never – suggested such a thing. And where Scotland Yard is concerned, your son works with a different system than they do; he would be unable to utilize his incredible methods if he enrolls with them."

Mr. and Mrs Holmes, to my satisfaction, were regarding me with an owlish look on their faces. I felt Holmes fidget slightly next to me. Needless to say, my liking for my friend's parents already became tainted by their attitude. _Innocent doctor_, indeed.

Holmes abruptly stood up. We turned our gazes towards him.

"Thank you for the tea," he said tersely. "I need to speak to Watson in private. We shall be in our rooms."

Yanking me to my feet, Holmes dragged me out of the sitting room and up the stairs. The corridors, I briefly noted, were wide and ornamented with oil canvases. Holmes suddenly thrust me inside a room and closed the door behind us, locking it.

We were in a spacious, two-bedded room. It was painted an alarming shade of white and contained, apart from the two beds, two writing desks, a wide mirror atop a large wooden dresser, a curtained window and a nightstand between the beds. Both our luggage have been brought up here, making it evident that we were to be roommates.

"This is the room Mycroft and I shared," Holmes said dryly.

I looked at him incredulously. "You lived in a mansion and your parents could not afford to give you each your own bedrooms?" I exclaimed.

Holmes shrugged indifferently. "What you just said to my parents –" he began.

"Was I out of line? Forgive me, but I could not simply sit there and listen to those awful things they said. To their own son, no less!"

"No, old boy; do not apologize to them."

I was dumbfounded. "I beg your pardon?"

"No one before you has put them in their place, and for that I sincerely thank you. Although, for your advantage, you should have waited until the end of our stay."

"They won't be so fond of me from now on."

"You can grin all you want but my parents are perfectly capable of being dangerous. You saw what they can do to their own children; imagine what they would do to strangers."

"I am not remotely afraid of them. I am a former army doctor, for God's sake. I've seen far worse than a couple of stiff parents."

"Watson –"

"Holmes, you are my friend. I understand that I need to be gracious to our hosts but I will not stand by and watch them attempt to destroy you! I have defended you once today; I will do it again, no matter the cost."

A flush of colour sprang to Holmes's cheeks and he hastily turned away. I patiently waited for him, knowing that he has been moved by softer, unfamiliar human emotions.

When he finally faced me again, I saw that his flush has been diluted to a rosy tint that still stood out brilliantly against his pallid skin.

"Thank you," Holmes nearly whispered.

"You're welcome," I replied softly.

An awkward silence fell between us. Holmes stared dead ahead at the wall behind me while I averted my eyes to the floor. It was somewhat of a personal moment between the two of us, and neither knew how to properly handle it. I appreciated it all the same, however.

Needing to break the ice, I asked, "Why do your parents keep saying they do not know what you have been up to if they have been reading my work?"

"Since they do not believe in my trade, they treat your literary pieces as works of fiction," Holmes sighed. "They must think I have employment on the side."

"But earlier they said –"

"It was probably not to offend you. They temporarily acknowledged my trade in order not to insult someone who is in a 'noble profession.' That is most likely why they have mentioned me not being a part of Scotland Yard. At least, not officially."

"They have offended me by degrading you. God, you weren't in this house for half an hour and already they attacked you!"

"I have warned you, haven't I?"

"Yes, yes. We do not have to stay here for the entire week if you do not desire it. We can leave in the morning, if you like."

"No; we will stay. I _will_ show my parents that I _am_ successful. By the end of this week they will see me in another light."

"Are you absolutely that this is what you want?" I said in askance.

"Yes," Holmes replied determinedly.

"Well, then," said I. "It will be most certainly an interesting week."

**Thanks for the reviews!**


	4. Chapter 4

As I have predicted, Mr. and Mrs Holmes's attitude towards me was considerably less welcoming after I had defended their son. Nevertheless, they tried their best to be warm (if one could call it that) and they made polite conversation, asking me about my army days and of my late wife, Mary. I calmly answered each question, feeling as if I were taking part of an interview rather than being a guest in someone's home.

Holmes described some of his most successful cases as we ate dinner that evening. His parents listened with such disapproval written on their faces that I had to concentrate very hard on my meal in order not to snap something at then. You, the reader, should have seen this: when they spoke of Mycroft's achievements, both parents glowed so brightly with pride that it was almost blinding. When Sherlock spoke of his own successes, his parents would gaze at him tight-lipped and unmoving. Mr. Holmes then went on asking what his son's real job was. At this point the only thing that was restraining me from performing any type of action other than eating was the covert warning glances my friend kept giving me. I complied with his wishes with tremendous difficulty.

It was not until we had returned to our shared bedroom so we could retire to bed when I finally released what was on my chest.

"Unbelievable!" I cried hotly as Holmes disrobed behind the folding screen. "You may be able to survive the week, Holmes, but not I."

Holmes head appeared from around the screen. "Are you planning on leaving soon?" he asked.

His worried expression softened me. "No, old boy. I would never dream of deserting you," I assured him.

He looked relieved and disappeared behind the screen again. I heard him moved around a little before coming out dressed in a long night shirt. I smiled at him before taking my nightclothes and retreating behind the folding screen.

"So my parents are already driving you mad?" Holmes asked amusedly as I unbuttoned my waistcoat.

"Not mad per se," I replied. "Irritating, certainly. Am I being too blunt?"

"Not at all. I suggest you use this time to speak your mind. It is not healthy to keep everything bottled up, my dear Watson."

"Only if you do the same."

"You know perfectly well that I do not like speaking of my family; being under their roof brings no exception. I have already told you much more than I would normally share."

"Which, for you, one single sentence would be considered excessive information."

I heard Holmes chuckle softly and I stepped out from behind the folding screen wearing my night clothing. I felt my friend's eyes on me as I put my things away, studying me closely.

"You are still tense," he remarked.

"Really?" I said sardonically. "What was your first hint?"

I turned to Holmes and found him shaking his head. "This is what I meant by it is not healthy to keep things inside. You are taking your frustrations out on me," he told me placidly.

"I am _not_," I snapped, and, realizing that I had sounded childish, added, "I mean, I am not trying to if I am. Is this what our week is going to resemble?"

"If I said otherwise, I would be lying."

"Right." I sighed heavily. "We'll just grit our teeth and do this, then?"

"Undoubtedly."

I let myself collapse onto the bed. I heard the other bed's springs creak, indicating that Holmes took his place in his bed. I slipped underneath the blankets and watched my friend do the same. He turned to me with a thoughtful expression as he lay on his side.

"What is it, Holmes?" I asked quietly.

He regarded me for a few seconds more before shaking his head.

"Nothing," Holmes said. "Goodnight, Watson."

"Goodnight," said I as he extinguished the candle's flame.

Darkness engulfed the room. Holmes turned his back to me as I placed myself on my own back, staring at the ceiling. I wondered what my friend had been thinking of when he had been contemplating me. But, being used to Holmes's secretive ways, I did not ponder over the matter for long and permitted sleep to put its claim over me.

* * *

"Wake up!"

Those were the words that had galvanized both me and Holmes. We scrambled to a sitting position, our hair dishevelled, as Mrs Holmes stood impatiently by the doorway of our bedroom. I flushed and wrapped the blankets around my torso, for it is inappropriate for a gentleman to be in that state of dress in front of a woman who is not his wife as you all know.

"_Mother!_" Holmes cried in outrage, covering himself up as well. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Have you forgotten? It's Sunday!" Mrs Holmes said.

Her son mumbled something unintelligible to our ears before replying, "Watson and I are perfectly capable of determining what day of the week it is, thank you."

"Don't be smart with me young, young man. You are very well aware that we go to church every Sunday. So get up and get dressed! We leave in half an hour."

With that, Mrs Holmes swept from the room. My friend sprang from his bed and rushed towards the door, closing it and locking it. Holmes leaned against the door, groaning.

"Damn, I had forgotten why Mycroft and I locked the door every night," Holmes said ruefully.

"I will personally make sure neither of us do from now on," I grumbled, slowly getting up.

"Forgive me for my lapse in memory, my dear Watson."

"There is no need to apologize, my dear Holmes."

Once we did our toilet and gotten dressed, we joined Mr. and Mrs Holmes in the landing. They were waiting for us by the door, looking elegant and fresh.

"Have you slept well?" Mr. Holmes asked, a little crisply.

"We did until Mother made her appearance," Holmes said in a very low whisper.

"Yes, thank you," I replied loudly over my friend's words.

His parents nodded and stepped outside towards an awaiting carriage. As Holmes and I followed, I poked him in the ribs. Holmes barely managed to stifle a small cry of surprise as he folded within himself.

"What was that for?" he hissed irritably, clutching his sides.

I smirked. Ironically enough, Holmes is very ticklish and I occasionally use that against him, as the reader now saw. I had inadvertently discovered that well hidden fact of his while we were conversing in our sitting room on Baker Street. As he was reorganizing his indexes, Holmes had annoyingly read my thoughts again and cut me off with a remark of his own as I spoke. To demonstrate my frustrations, I had stridden over to him and prodded him in his side. The reaction I received was priceless: Holmes had let slip a strangled gasp and jumped about five feet in the air in shock, dropping his book in the process. To this day I cannot tell which of us was more surprised, but I _do_ recall him telling me that if I revealed this secret to a single soul he would render me with a concussion. I will deal with the consequences of my actions later.

"Thank goodness you reacted," I answered placidly. "I've begun to think you were a walking statue."

My friend harrumphed and marched ahead of me, but not without a more relaxed stride that had not been formerly present. He probably feared I would tickle him again if he did not unwind a bit.

I had not been to a Sunday mass in ages, so I had forgotten how long they can be. Nevertheless, it was somewhat refreshing (at least Mr. and Mrs Holmes were pleased by our attendance). Their son, while keeping a very respectable front, evidently wished he was elsewhere. He kept his stare focused on the priest but his eyes lacked that sparkle they got whenever his interest was piqued.

The brunch that followed was peaceful. Maybe it was because we were eating in public. There were many passing gentlemen who kept casting covert glances at Mrs Holmes, I noticed. She was a beautiful woman, I admit, with her dark hair streaked with grey and her striking blue eyes mixed with the contrast of her pale skin, attracting the attention of numerous admirers. Between revealing my friend's secret and describing his mother as thus, do not be surprised, the reader, if you no longer hear from me after this piece of my literary work.

When we returned to the mansion, Holmes led me to the vast backyard. He brought me over to a bench on the far end of the yard that was obscured by a large bush, concealing us from the world. My friend made sure we were truly alone before sitting next to me.

"That was… endurable," said he.

"Pleasant," I chimed in helpfully. "It was pleasant."

"If only we can have every single day be like this," Holmes stated wistfully.

"Are we going to have discussions in private after every activity we share with your parents?"

"What have I said about keeping things inside?"

"It is not healthy."

"Excellent, Watson. You are a formidable listener."

"I've learned from the best."

Holmes smiled appreciatively before looking out in the distance. From where we sat we could see the lovely green landscape that stretched beyond the horizon over the low fence. I suddenly had an image of Holmes in his youth exploring the fields, making early attempts at his everlasting research.

As if he read my thoughts, Holmes said, "This is where I came to perform my experiments and research the various aspects of the world."

I glanced at him. "You did not conduct them in the house?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Unless I desired to have my work ripped away from me, no."

"Holmes…"

"My parents are rich, Watson. They have social class, and very much of it. Anything that threatened to take away that privilege was a near blasphemy. Instead of playing cricket and socializing with the other boys I spent my time in my own sort of solitary confinement and studied away. I was happy but my parents weren't."

"Did _anyone_ in that household support you?"

"Mycroft did, and still does. He is not as perfect as my parents like to believe. He has often lied to them in order to make them none the wiser on my activities."

"What would he tell them?"

"That he was helping them reform me."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Really, Watson, this should be obvious."

"_Holmes._"

"Oh, all right. They simply forced me to join activities I had no desire to participate in. They tried to make me a product of their standards."

"But you haven't –"

"Evidently."

" – If you would let me finish. Clearly, you have not confined yourself to their expectations, but you are so much more than that. You are the best detective anyone has ever seen in years. _Years_, Holmes! You and your methods surpass the whole Scotland Yard, for God's sake! You are brilliant, you are incredibly talented, and if your parents cannot see that then they are the ones in the wrong, not you."

Holmes briefly stared at me in astonishment before giving me a half-smile. "I am aware, Watson," he said.

I shook my head.

"I highly doubt it," I replied. "No one can grow up in such an environment and fully believe they are worth something. It is a mistake many people make: they assume because their parents said it, it must be true."

"I am not like everyone else, in case you have failed to notice," Holmes said dryly.

I sighed, knowing that I could not convince him. But, somehow, I knew my words applied to him whether he acknowledged them or not. Holmes avoided all matters of the heart if he could so I would have not been surprised if he was lying to himself, consciously or subconsciously. But I chose to drop the subject, deciding to let my friend approach me if he ever deemed the time to be right.

Something fell onto my hand and I glanced down. A drop of water lay there and I looked at the sky, receiving another raindrop on my face. Holmes stood up and offered me his arm.

"Come, Watson," he said softly. "The weather is no longer in our favour."

I got to my feet and linked my arm through his. As we crossed the garden, I covertly eyed my friend. Now that I was slowly discovering about his past, I was finding Holmes's mask of the cold logical thinker more and more unsettling. I did not know enough to form any definite theory, but I was wondering if appearing detached was Holmes's way of protecting his heart. He clearly did not want to face it, anyhow. I was willing to help defend that heart but I was determined to do so in a more emotional way, with hopes to maybe ease it open.

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	5. Chapter 5

Mr. Holmes was absent the following day, visiting some colleagues at a gentlemen's club. Holmes himself had rushed off to the nearest village that morning, leaving a note pinned to the front of my night shirt – how he managed to accomplish that without waking me was beyond my ken – explaining where he went but not what he was doing. The reader can imagine my displeasure at the thought of being left alone in that mansion.

After spending half an hour almost blindingly trying to find my way around the home (the place was a bloody maze!), I inadvertently stumbled upon Mrs Holmes knitting in the sitting room. I mumbled my apologies and went to retreat but the lady did what I was praying she would not do: she motioned me to take the armchair opposite her. I complied with her wishes, knowing that I should always be gracious to my hosts.

"Hello, Dr. Watson," Mrs Holmes said.

"Hullo," I replied, dully and automatically.

"I wish to discuss something with you," she continued flatly.

"O-Oh?" said I, not liking where this was going.

"Yes. In your honest opinion, do you think what Sherlock does as a profession is _real_ employment?"

I did not answer. That did not seem to deter Mrs Holmes.

"Well?" she pressed on.

"I do believe the answer to that question is obvious," I said coolly. "I write for him, don't I?"

"I see. What has Sherlock done to convince you so?"

"His remarkable talents."

"If he is so talented at police work then why isn't he working for Scotland Yard?"

"I have told you, he could not use his methods if he were to work under their system. He occasionally works _with_ them rather than _for_ them."

"Dr. Watson, Sherlock seems to listen to you. Yes, I have already observed that. Can you please persuade him so pursue a _real_ line of employment? Something honourable, preferably."

"I think not."

"And why not?"

"Mrs Holmes, this will become a very short visit if you and your husband do not show more respect for your son," I warned.

Mrs Holmes laughed. "Sherlock would never do such a thing," she replied sweetly. "Not a second time."

I smiled without warmth. "Then you don't know Sherlock. Excuse me."

I stood up and left the sitting room. I found my way to the kitchen and gave a start when I saw my friend sitting at the table. To my horror, a small gash stood out angrily against his cheek.

"Holmes!" I gasped, rushing towards him. "What happened?"

"Oh, some ruffians down in the village tried to teach me a lesson on staying out of criminal business," my friend replied airily. "Between me and some kind villagers, they did not stand a chance."

I took his head in my hands and examined the wound. Fortunately, it was not _too_ deep but it seemed that someone had thrust a sharp object across his face. This was not going to improve his parents' already coloured opinion of his trade.

Holmes's long white fingers encircled my wrists and he pulled my hands away. He clasped them firmly in his own and his grey eyes were sparkling with excitement.

"You should have seen it, Watson! They tried to corner me but I was more than ready for them; the fight barely lasted ten minutes. It was delicious!" Holmes exclaimed cheerfully, grinning then wincing.

"Yes, yes, it's all very fine," I said, freeing my hands and pulling a handkerchief from my trouser pocket. "Are you implying that you had been summoned for a brawl this morning?" I added, wiping the blood that was trickling down his cheek.

"No; I had gone for a walk."

"You are the only person I know who can perform an activity as harmless as walking and come out bleeding and proud."

"I am one of a kind, my dear Watson."

"That you are." I smiled fondly at Holmes. "Come with me so I can patch you up. Hold this handkerchief against your wound to stem the bleeding. That's it. It's a good thing I never go anywhere without my medical bag."

"It's a good thing I never go anywhere without _you_," I heard Holmes say as he led the way out of the kitchen. I did not trust my sense of direction in that place.

Mrs Holmes waltzed out of the sitting room at precisely the right time and openly goggled at her son. I suddenly remembered which direction the stairs were in and attempted to tug Holmes away. He would not budge, and he returned his mother's stare.

"Good morning, Mother," he said brightly.

"Sherlock," Mrs Holmes said slowly, "what –?"

"Do not worry, Mother. There was a bit of a scuffle in the village centred around me."

"Around _you_?"

"Criminals are not fond of me. They would rather have me stay out of their affairs."

"Now you involve yourself in brawls! Just wait until your father gets home."

"I haven't heard that line in twenty years. I cannot say I've missed it. What was I supposed to do? Let them beat me to a bloody pulp?"

"Come along, Sherlock," I said, dragging my friend away before his mother could reply.

Back in our room, I rummaged through my medical bag, Holmes sitting on his bed. I felt his eyes bore into me but I paid no mind. I was far too used to his scrutinizing stares to be bothered.

"You called me by my given name."

I glanced at him over my shoulder. "Sorry?"

"You called me Sherlock," Holmes said, cocking his head to the side. "Why?"

I shrugged. "No reason. Forgive me," said I.

Holmes shook his head. "No, it's… fine."

He said nothing more but continued to eye me curiously. I pulled some supplies from my bag before snapping it shut. I administered my care on Holmes, cleaning his wound very carefully. He sat as still as a statue, not wincing once as I placed the stitches.

"There. And, since you're a friend, free of charge," I joked lightly, screwing the disinfectant's lid close and gathering my tools.

"Thank you, John," Holmes said, feeling his stitches.

I blinked. "What?" I asked, nonplussed.

It was his turn to shrug. "Just experimenting," he replied, unconcerned.

He got up and left without another word. I simply stood there for a minute before shaking my head. I was better off making no inquiries: they always led to more questions than answers where Sherlock Holmes was concerned.

* * *

Surely enough, when Mr. Holmes arrived home for dinner that evening, Mrs Holmes wasted no time in telling him of their son's earlier activities. This resulted in a very stern discussion in the evening room. Why was I included in this matter, I still have not the slightest idea. I was sitting in an armchair as Mr. Holmes paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, his wife seated rigidly on the settee and his son resembling a sulking teenager as he sat low in his chair with his hands deep in his trouser pockets next to me. I was not certain if he was even listening to what was being said.

"Why must you engage in such – such _roughhousing_?" Mr. Holmes asked angrily. "Do you have _any_ idea how disgraceful that is?"

Really, now. He should have just been glad his son was safe and sound. But, apparently, _other_ things were of much more importance in his mind.

"It was either fight the bandits or let them kill me. Forgive me if I wrongly assumed you would have wanted to keep your youngest son alive," Holmes replied surly.

"_That is beyond the point!_" his father nearly yelled. "There was a constable in your vicinity; why didn't you let him deal with the situation?"

"There was?" My friend looked thoughtful. "Huh. I was not aware."

"Clearly, you weren't."

"I only call upon the police when I have work for them. Otherwise, I only work with Watson here."

"That brawl will be in all the papers tomorrow morning! It will taint the family name!"

"Not particularly," I interjected. "Holmes – or Sherlock – is known all over the country as a great detective. The public will not be surprised to learn that he has been attacked. In fact, they'll be worried about his health."

"Dr. Watson," Mr. Holmes said slowly. "You are here to observe. Please keep your comments to yourself."

I glared at him for a millisecond before composing myself. Holmes was giving his father a withering look as he straightened himself in his armchair.

"You may be rude to me," Holmes said in a dangerously calm voice, "but you _will_ be more courteous to my friend."

"Holmes…" I whispered to him. He glanced at me in response.

Surprisingly, it was Mrs Holmes who spoke next.

"Darling, Sherlock is right," said she.

Mr. Holmes offered his wife a long look before turning to me.

"Yes. My apologies, Dr. Watson; I was out of line," he told me stiffly.

I said nothing. I did not trust myself to speak without seeming disrespectful as well. I turned my gaze to Holmes, who was immensely interested in his fingernails. I have to admit they were much more fascinating than the conversation we were taking part of.

"What are we going to do with you, Sherlock? First, you run away from home; second, you do not contact us for twenty years; third, you embark in employment that you've made up; and now, you engage into fights! What do you have to say for yourself?" Mr. Holmes demanded.

"That I believe the family reputation will be just fine," Holmes said indifferently. "Come, Watson."

"Where do you think you're going?" Mr. Holmes exclaimed as we walked away.

My friend paused at the threshold. "This conversation," said he, "is over."

I followed him into the dining room. Holmes sat at the long table as I leaned against the wall, gazing out the window. Summer was approaching so the daylight hours were starting to become longer. I tried to feel joyous at the prospect but I could not manage.

"Everything all right, Watson?"

I turned to Holmes, who was watching me attentively.

"You are asking if _I'm_ all right?" I replied incredulously. "I am not the one who has been burned to the stake by his parents."

"I am familiar with them. You are not," Holmes said matter-of-factly, as if this were a plausible argument.

Suddenly tired, I sat on the floor with my knees drawn up. I eyed Holmes for a long minute.

"You are calm," said I. "It's unsettling."

His eyebrows nearly touched his hairline. "Am I supposed to have an episode of hysteria?" he asked, almost amusedly.

"No, but you are not following your own advice. What has ever happened to not letting things build up inside? You will have an emotional breakdown."

"Watson –"

"Not only will you have the abuse from this week on your chest but the abuse of the first twenty years of your life! Just because you ignore the pain for two decades does not mean it has gone away."

"Watson –"

"Why can you not unburden yourself to someone you trust, if not me? You would feel much better –"

"Watson!" Holmes cried angrily. "That's enough! I am not like you; I can dispose of emotions quite easily."

"Emotions do not function like facts, Holmes. They linger, even if you are not aware of them. They will spill out eventually if you do not deal with them," I informed him.

"That does not apply to me! You'd best remember that!" Holmes exclaimed icily.

He stood up and stormed from the room; I remained where I was. My friend tried far too hard to not be like every other human being but deep down, I knew, he was aware that he was. He was further proving the theory I had formed about him protecting his heart by being detached. I truly felt sorry for him, and desired to help him.

I got to my feet. Knowing that Holmes would prefer I stayed out of his sight for the time being, I went to find my coat and was out the door.

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	6. Chapter 6

I woke up the next morning with my head resting on my arms upon a table. My back ached slightly as I straightened myself, looking around, bleary-eyed. I was still inside the pub I had visited the previous night, sitting at the same table by the window. Had I fallen asleep? How had I managed to do so? And why hadn't I been thrown out? These were questions that were whirling in my mind in a confused haze.

A man whom I assumed to be the landlord descended the stairs and I hastily stood up. He smiled kindly at me before motioning me to sit back down. I complied, a little nervous, and stammered my apologies.

"There is no need to apologize," the landlord said brightly. "You had nothing to drink so I knew you did not pass out from being a drunkard. I had decided to let you sleep since you looked so peaceful; I didn't have the heart to wake you. Now how about some breakfast? On the house."

I timidly agreed and he served me a wonderful meal, during which he spoke of various topics as I ate. He had travelled the world and described his favourite places to me. It was truly fascinating.

I thanked the landlord heartily for his generosity before leaving the pub. The villagers were already out and about in the streets, carrying on with their affairs. Two women walked past me, giggling and waving at me flirtatiously. I waved back at them, glad that Holmes was not there to tease me about what he calls my 'affinity' with the fairer sex.

"_Watson!_"

I whirled around. To my surprise, Holmes sprang from a nearby carriage and rushed towards me. He grabbed me by the forearms and pulled me so close that there was only a fragment of space between us.

"Watson! Where have you _been_? I was worried!" Holmes cried frantically.

I believed him. He was paler than usual and the dark shadows were back underneath his eyes, showing that he had not slept much, if he had slept at all. It was these moments that showed me that a great heart lay hidden beneath that great brain.

He did not give me a chance to answer. "You ran away because of how I treated you. Please forgive me, my dear Watson. It was not right," Holmes said, looking so uncharacteristically miserable that my heart hurt at the sight of him.

"Oh, dear… _No_, Holmes," I reassured him, prying his hands off me and giving them a gentle squeeze. "I did not run away. I had only intended to give you some time to yourself. I didn't mean to be out all night. If there is anyone who should be asking for forgiveness, it is me."

"Seeing you gone reminded me of what I had done. My parents maltreated me so I ran away. That is why I thought you had done the same."

"I would never leave you, old boy. Never forget that."

Holmes nodded and looked away. I felt terrible for scaring him like that. Not only that, I made unpleasant memories resurface again. Holmes was getting that from his parents; he did not need it from me.

"So," Holmes said, his habitual indifference returning, "where _did_ you spend the night?"

I flushed under his curious gaze and pointed at the pub, embarrassed. Waking in up in a place where alcohol was served was not the doing of a respectable gentleman.

The corners of my friend's mouth twitched as he fought down a smile. "Your red cheeks suggest the building is not an inn," he declared amusedly. "You slept in a pub?"

"It wasn't as if I did in on purpose!" I exclaimed, flushing deeper. "I don't even remember falling asleep."

"Did you have anything to drink?"

"No!"

"Now, how do I know you are not lying?"

"Ask the landlord; he'll tell you."

"I am just teasing you, old boy. There is no need to look so affronted."

"_Hmph._"

"My parents are still in their bed. Shall we take part of the morning to do as we please here in the village?"

"I suppose so…"

"Capital."

Holmes showed me some of the most popular spots in the village. It was a nice little centre, very relaxed and quite cheerful. There were many places to have an afternoon tea, a prestigious gentlemen's club stood proud in the heart of the area, numerous cozy homes lined the streets, and Holmes was kind enough to inform me that the pub which was favoured by drunkards was located on the eastside of the village. The one I had wandered in was mostly visited by respectable gentlemen who desired a drink after a long day of work.

"Are you telling me this by knowledge or through experience?" I asked jokingly.

Holmes glared at me in response.

There was a lake close by and we sat near its edge, watching the children play around it. Well, _I_ was paying attention to them: Holmes was staring out into space, lost in thought. I wondered what was going through his mind.

I was not aware of how we had lost track of time until Holmes looked at his watch. He gasped and jumped to his feet, bringing me to mine in the process with startling strength.

"Holmes?" I said in surprise.

"It is already late morning, Watson! My parents always wake up at nine o'clock; it is their routine," Holmes cried. "It's now eleven."

Grasping my hand he dragged me to the nearest hansom and barked directions to the poor unsuspecting driver. We sped down the road, the wind whistling past us.

My friend had his arms tightly crossed and I was clearly able to see his pulse beating wildly through his neck. I grabbed his arms and turned him to me.

"Holmes, this is not like you. Calm down," said I. "Take a deep breath and tell me what's so urgent."

"My parents do not like having their routine broken. Watson, please release me," Holmes replied.

That did not enlighten me. I _hated_ it when he spoke in riddles. "But you haven't woken them before nine."

Holmes shook his head. I was apparently off the mark.

"We are Tuesday. Every Tuesday at eleven o'clock in the morning they sit and read the Bible aloud. _Everyone_ must attend, and we are already quite late. Let go of me, Watson."

"Attendance is mandatory? You are not a schoolboy, Holmes."

"Watson! Your fingers are digging into my arms!"

I hastily drew back. "My apologies," I mumbled. "Are the servants obliged to participate as well?"

"Yes," Holmes said tersely.

"What are your parents running? A mansion or a Bible school?" I asked incredulously.

"An army base is more like it," my friend said irritably. I was inclined to agree with him.

We arrived at the estate and we rushed inside the building. We left our coats by the door before quietly making our way into the morning room, where we were greeted with a smile by the servants and an expression cold enough to freeze water by Mr. and Mrs Holmes. Their son and I sat down and listened to the remainder of the reading.

When it was over half an hour later, we all filed out of the morning room. Mr. and Mrs Holmes ignored us completely as we passed. Maybe there was no storm to avoid after all.

Those hopes were dashed when Holmes sat on the bottom step of the stairs and said, "They didn't say a word. That is worrisome."

"Are you sure they weren't simply ignoring us?" I inquired.

"No, my dear Watson. Dark forces are in the works." Holmes gave me a sardonic smile. "I guess I am not proving much to them, am I?"

"You have nothing to prove. It's their own bloody fault if they cannot accept you for who you are. Besides, you haven't followed their rituals in two decades; it is only natural that you forgot the Bible reading."

"I did _not_ forget!"

I frowned at him.

"Fine, I did," Holmes admitted moodily. "I'm going to pay the price for it, however."

"And what makes you so certain that you will?" said I.

"Past experiences," Holmes sighed.

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	7. Chapter 7

We spent the rest of the day tiptoeing around Holmes's parents but no wrath came our way. My friend was steadily convinced that his mother and father were waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. His anxiety was spreading onto me, and I was nearly checking every corner before turning them.

Holmes was almost a completely different person. He was very subdued, and he gave a start whenever someone addressed him. He only behaved as himself when we were alone together. He remained quiet around his family and spoke a day's worth of thoughts to me. I was under the impression I was receiving a glimpse of my friend as a young boy. It was a painful to watch.

It was on Wednesday we discovered Mr. and Mrs Holmes's plan of action. After spending the morning in the enormous library (Holmes had showed me so many books that the words had begun to fuse together before my eyes), we joined our hosts for lunch and froze at the threshold of the dining room. Sitting with his parents was none other than my friend's older brother Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft waved at us cheerily as Mr. and Mrs Holmes kept a rather stony expression.

"Hello, Sherlock, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said with a smile. "Sherlock, what's this I hear about you being, and I quote, 'unruly'? How are you, my good doctor?"

"I am fine, thank you," I replied, shaking his hand after Sherlock had done so. "Yourself?"

"I cannot complain. The government has kept me busy. Sherlock, you have yet to answer my question."

"It all depends on your definition of 'unruly,' my dear brother."

"The habitual, then?"

"Evidently."

"Mycroft is here to put some sense back into you," Mrs Holmes said curtly. "He has always been the one to be able to make you see reason."

"Has he now?" Sherlock said mildly, exchanging a meaningful glance with his brother.

"Yes, he has," Mr. Holmes declared, failing to read between the lines. "It would be in your best interest to listen to him: your inheritance is at stake."

Sherlock looked as if he was on the verge to say something rude so I gently and surreptitiously tugged on his sleeve. He glanced at me but he understood my message: he swallowed his retort and forced a pleasant smile.

"The whole family is reunited once more," Sherlock said. "Isn't it lovely?"

* * *

I had to wait a good five minutes for my friend to recover from the fit of laughter he was experiencing. He must have been suppressing it throughout the lunch and allowed it to be released into the open when we returned to the library. His cheeks had taken on a warm hue and his eyes were sparkling with humour. It was nice to see him in a better mood.

"Mycroft!" Holmes exclaimed cheerfully, grabbing me by the forearms in his enthusiasm and shaking me. "Mycroft is their big revenge! _Ha!_"

"You have nothing to worry about, then," said I, disengaging myself from him.

"And the inheritance! Do they truly believe I want their damn money? They can keep it for all I care," Holmes said. "I didn't even know I was still in their will. I am fairly certain they were bluffing on that point."

"Yes, finances are the least of your problems."

"Where were we in our reading, Watson?"

"You are certainly quick to change the subject."

"I prefer not to dwell."

"I've noticed."

Holmes glared at me almost balefully as Mycroft waltzed in.

"I thought I'd find you back here again," said the elder Holmes.

"How did you know I was here previously?" Sherlock tested.

"The dust on your sleeves clearly indicated you spent a good deal of time in the library, where heavy volumes collect thick layers of the substance. Knowing your love of research, Sherlock, it is only natural that you would return after lunch," Mycroft explained airily.

"Very good, Mycroft."

"Thank you. Now, why did you not wire me when you decided to visit Mother and Father? I would have accompanied you sooner."

"I was not aware you were so fond of them."

"I'm not; I dislike them for what they do to you. You know they are more taken with me. I could have softened them for you."

"Well, since they listen to you, can you please tell them to –"

"Holmes," I warned sternly, and both brothers turned their attention to me. An automatic response, I supposed.

"Er, may I call you by your given names while you are together?" I asked, hesitantly.

"You may," Sherlock and Mycroft replied in unison.

"Thank you," I said appreciatively.

"Getting angry with them will not do much," Mycroft informed his brother.

"I thank you for the obvious, Mycroft," Sherlock said clinically.

"Sherlock," said I. His given name felt foreign on my tongue, and my friend seemed to agree: he blinked once before looking at me. "Mycroft's right. Anger only seems to fuel your parents' fire."

"I know. I can usually control it but it is more difficult this time," Sherlock replied, frowning.

I had warned him; I had _warned_ him. He had suppressed his hurt and anger for far too long and his emotions were starting to bubble over. Of course, Sherlock was nowhere near aware of what was occurring; I was almost certain he never would be. I was beginning to believe a possible emotional breakdown, no matter how unlikely it appeared, was in the works.

"Master your emotions, my dear brother," Mycroft advised. "Unless you express happy feelings Mother and Father will be unresponsive."

"Again, thank you for the –"

"Sherlock, why don't you go back to your reading? I will join you shortly," I suggested.

It may have been the use of his given name again, but Sherlock met my request without resistance. As he crossed the room I turned to Mycroft, who was regarding me curiously.

"Sherlock must be quite fond of you if he did what you asked him," Mycroft commented thoughtfully. "It is clear you are like a brother to him."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes."

"Oh, please, call me Mycroft. A brother of Sherlock's is a brother of mine."

I smiled. I was glad neither son had inherited their parents' personalities.

"He is not well," Mycroft said suddenly.

"You are speaking of Sherlock," I stated.

"He is hurting, that much is clear. But he would rather bury what he feels and ignore it completely."

"It's a defense mechanism, isn't it?"

"Good observation, Doctor. Sherlock once was like an open book: easy to read and full of expression; he was merely a child then. But the more Mother and Father tried to make him a product of their standards and stripped away his freedom, the more Sherlock retreated within himself. I had tried to coax him out of his shell with no positive results; at least he trusted me with the outcomes of his experiments. But Sherlock has now found you, and it is evident that he trusts you with his life. Do not break that trust, Doctor, for it would kill him inside."

"I would never dream of it," I replied. "But he is as open with me as he is with you."

"He includes you in almost everything he does. Believe me; he is extremely fond of you. Remember my last, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said.

"I won't," I said softly as he turned on his heels and left the library.

I looked at my friend, who was heavily studying a thick volume. It was difficult to picture him as a carefree little boy. But everyone, no matter who they were, was once carefree; life's experiences would make us no longer thus. The only difference with Holmes was that that privilege was stripped away from him at an early age. My contempt for his parents was deepening.

"Watson?"

I gave a start and found Holmes standing before me. I had looked away for a few seconds and during that time he came to me unnoticed. He could truly be like a ghost at times.

"What is it, Sher – _Holmes_! Sorry," said I.

"Are you all right?" Holmes asked, ignoring my blunder.

_He_ was asking _me_ that? Dear me.

"Er, yes? Why do you ask?" I wanted to know.

"You were staring at me with a glazed look on your face."

"Was I? Forgive me."

"Do not worry, old boy. Come with me."

He led me back to his book, Mycroft's words still resounding in my mind. I wondered how long the older of the two brothers would pretend to play their parents' game. Surely the truth would be exposed eventually; it always was.

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	8. Chapter 8

Watching Mycroft take charge of his younger brother was slightly bizarre. My friend obeyed every command he was given without a single complaint. I knew this was a façade they were putting up for their parents but a submissive Sherlock Holmes was a difficult concept for my mind to wrap around.

Mr. and Mrs Holmes were certainly pleased; they positively doted on Mycroft and almost behaved as if they did not have a second son. It was Mycroft this, Mycroft that, and I had to excuse myself from the afternoon tea for I could no longer tolerate the favouritism (Mycroft, if you are reading this, please note that I mean no offense to you).

After dinner that evening, my friend suddenly disappeared. I searched for him high and low – and I think I may have gotten lost at some point in that mansion – but he was nowhere to be found. It was not until I crossed paths with his brother that I discovered of his whereabouts.

"Looking for Sherlock? I saw him sneaking into the backyard smuggling a blanket underneath his coat," Mycroft informed me. "I suspect he is going to watch the meteor shower that's supposed to occur tonight."

I was startled. "Really?" I replied.

"Really. Go on; I do believe your company will be welcomed."

I thanked him before finding my way to the back door. It was a beautiful night, with the stars twinkling brightly against the black sky, and a cool breeze gently swept everything in its path. I went to the remote corner Holmes and I had visited the other day and, sure enough, I found him lying on the ground on a big blanket.

"You have no interest in the solar system yet you want to watch a meteor shower?" I asked amusedly.

Holmes looked at me. "Anything to get out of that house," said he.

"Fair point. Do you mind if I join you?"

"Not at all."

I lay next to him. We kept silent for a small while, enjoying each other's company.

Finally, Holmes said, "I suppose my brother told you where I was?"

"What else?" I said.

My friend nodded his acknowledgement of my answer.

"Do you know why I do not study astronomy?" he asked.

"Because you deemed it as useless information," I replied, somewhat irritably.

"Yes," Holmes laughed. "But that is not the only reason."

"What is the other reason?"

"It's unstimulating."

"As simple as that!"

"What did you expect, Watson? That I have been beaten over the head by a telescope?"

"Have you?"

"Of course not!"

"I was just making sure. So astronomy is boring and useless to you."

"As I said."

"I won't bother arguing the point with you, then."

"Because you know you won't win?"

"Obviously."

"Watson?"

"Hmm?"

"Why are we having this conversation?"

I laughed. "Because that is what friends do: they have seemingly meaningless discussions. A discussion, I may remark, that you started."

"And you continued it."

"A distinct touch, my friend."

"I thank you."

We fell silent again. Somewhere in the distance a cricket was chirping. I was so relaxed that I closed my eyes, letting the sounds of nature calm my senses further.

"You're not falling asleep now, are you?" Holmes asked lightly.

"No," I replied, cracking an eye open to look at him. "Why?"

"Because it's starting," Holmes said, pointing upwards.

I turned my gaze to the sky. Little balls of light were streaking across the dark overhead. I watched in awe, feeling like a child discovering the world for the very first time.

"It's beautiful," I whispered.

"I guess it is," Holmes said indifferently.

"Holmes?"

"Yes, Watson?"

"Are you still certain that you wish to remain here for the rest of the week?"

"Yes," Holmes said after a moment of hesitation. I did not believe him.

The shower continued, capturing our attention once more. It was the first peaceful moment we had had all week. I wanted to hope that it would last but I knew deep in my heart it was far too much to ask for. I knew it all too well.

* * *

The sound of birds singing roused me from my sleep. My eyes fluttered open and I found myself face to face with Holmes, his slumbering for only inches away from mine. Questions erupted in my sleep-induced mind: was I sharing a bed with Holmes? How and why did that happen? A part of me feared finding out.

I took in our surroundings, and noticed we were still outside. I sighed in relief; we must have fallen asleep during the meteor shower. A blanket was covering us both, brought by someone during the night – I suspected it was Mycroft. A surprisingly thoughtful gesture, nonetheless.

I rolled over onto my side to face my friend again. He seemed so at peace, so – so – unguarded. He looked as if nothing had hardened him over the years. I wished, for his sake, that he would always be like this.

Holmes suddenly stirred and slowly opened his eyes. He regarded me groggily for a moment before smiling sleepily.

"Good morning, Watson," Holmes said softly. "Have you been awake long?"

"Good morning. And, no, I haven't," I replied serenely.

"I thought not. I see Mycroft brought us a blanket."

"You believe it to be him as well?"

"Are you capable of imagining my parents being so considerate?"

"Unfortunately, no."

"There you have it. Unless this blanket fell from the sky this is my brother's doing."

I placed myself in a sitting position and Holmes mimicked me. It was a lovely morning, with blue skies and an abundance of sunshine. But the good weather did not ease the sense of foreboding inside me. Something was brewing, and I wished I knew what it was.

"Holmes, I do think we should return to Baker Street today," said I.

"Why, Watson? I understand that our stay has yet to be a pleasant one but I have made it clear that I want to remain," Holmes replied.

"Something is wrong. I can feel it."

"Something has been wrong since Saturday. Times two, mind you."

"It's worse, Holmes, and I am under the impression that it involves you and your family."

"Watson, you are speaking in riddles."

"I thought riddles were a specialty of yours?"

"Very amusing."

"I'm serious, Holmes. Let's cut our visit short."

"No. I gave my word that I would be here until Saturday and I _always_ keep my word. Even when it is given to people I am not particularly fond of."

"But –"

"Enough, Watson! My answer is final!"

Snatching the blanket covering us, Holmes stood up and stalked off. I watched him go, saddened. I was only trying to protect him from the worse of heartaches. But, I supposed, some things could only be comprehended by experiencing them. Picking up the blanket that had been lying underneath us, I followed my friend into the mansion.

**A bit of a random chapter but I wanted to give Holmes and Watson a small break from the rough week they've been having.**

**Thanks for the reviews!**


	9. Chapter 9

I had been right: something awful _did_ happen. My instincts had been positively screaming at me the entire day but I had unwillingly ignored them for my friend's sake. If I had obeyed myself, we would have avoided this disaster.

Things had begun all right. Dinner had been pleasant enough – save the continuous doting on Mycroft – and we had migrated to the evening room where Holmes picked up a violin. He played a beautiful tune, a composition of his, entrancing us all. I was shocked to see Mr. and Mrs Holmes give their youngest son the first genuine smile of the entire week. I glanced at Mycroft, who smiled and nodded at me.

"Sherlock, that was absolutely lovely," Mrs Holmes said admiringly.

"Thank you, Mother," Holmes replied, looking pleased with himself.

"That was truly exquisite. Since when do you play the violin?" Mr. Holmes asked with interest.

"Since I moved to London…" his son said softly, positioning himself to play again.

"Darling, do you not have connections with the opera folks?" Mrs Holmes wanted to know.

A sound I could only describe as a punctured accordion filled the room as Holmes stumbled over the violin strings. I shook my head in exasperation.

"I do," Mr. Holmes said thoughtfully, paying no mind to his son's blunder with the instrument. "I can pull a few strings. Sherlock, the great violinist! Picture it, Anita."

"I most certainly am, William. Do you think you could –"

"_No._"

The word came so suddenly, so coldly, that there was no doubt to whom had uttered it. My friend had placed the violin next to his armchair and he glared at his parents with such ferocity I could practically feel his resentment. Mr. and Mrs Holmes appeared scandalized but they were quick to confront the abrupt rejection of their idea.

"I beg your pardon?" Mr. Holmes said.

"You heard me. Stop trying to force me to live the life _you_ wish me to have," Holmes replied, his voice at a dangerously calm level and colder than ice.

"We are looking out for your best interest," his mother refuted.

"Do you honestly expect me to believe that? You are only concerned with your reputation! You always have been!"

"Sherlock –"

"I already have employment, thank you. Employment that I love! This is my life, whether you like it or not."

"Your type of employment does not exist! You are imprisoned in a fantasy that should have died in childhood! I think you should –"

"Oh, who gives a damn about what you think!"

"Sherlock!" Mr. Holmes roared angrily. "Apologize to your mother!"

My friend rounded on his father. "I have nothing to apologize for," said he. "_You_ are the ones who owe _me_ an apology, not the other way around."

Mr. Holmes flushed with anger. I was looking at his son in amazement: Holmes was not one to have an outburst of any kind. All those years of suppressed resentment were at last spilling out of him.

Mrs Holmes desperately turned to her eldest son.

"Mycroft," she pleaded. "Do something about your brother."

He shook his head. "It is out of my hands," Mycroft replied, somewhat coolly.

"Apologize to your mother," Mr. Holmes repeated, seething.

I was quite certain they had forgotten about me. All four of them were staring hard at one another and not a single glance was cast my way. Maybe it was for the best.

Holmes said nothing. His hard grey eyes were glaring daggers at his father, unforgiving. This seemed to fuel Mr. Holmes's fire.

"Sherlock," he said slowly. "Apologize to your mother and take the job we will give you, or you will be disowned. We will no longer tolerate your – your – _flights of fancy_!"

Those statements made me see red. They were cruel; they were so cruel! Did they care about anyone other than themselves? They did not even fully care about Mycroft: they only doted on him because he represented the family in a way they deemed to be acceptable. Otherwise, they would not give a damn. I was beyond furious.

Holmes blinked and said, "Then consider me as thus."

He swept from the room. The rest of us sat in silence save Mr. Holmes's heavy breathing. It was Mycroft who spoke next.

"Dr. Watson, please tend to Sherlock. _I_ will deal with these two," said he.

"What is that suppose to mean?" his father spat.

"Oh, you will see," Mycroft replied menacingly. "Go, Doctor."

I nodded and crossed the room.

"Doctor."

I paused at the threshold and looked over my shoulder.

"Under the flower pot," Mycroft said.

I hid my confusion at the cryptic message and made my way to the upper levels. I found the bedroom I shared with my friend and tried to open the door. It was locked. Frustrated and cursing slightly under my breath, I looked around and discovered a table with a flower pot not too far away. Remembering Mycroft's words I approached it and lifted the pot, revealing a key. Yelling could be heard from the evening room as I examined it. Mr. and Mrs Holmes, it seemed, had finally learnt of Mycroft's true sentiments.

I returned to the door and slid the key in the lock. It was a perfect fit, and I turned the key and let myself in. I closed the door and locked it again.

The place was seemingly deserted but my instincts were telling me otherwise. I strode over to the folding screen and peered behind it. Surely enough, Holmes was sitting on the floor with his arms hugging his knees, staring stonily at the wall. I stepped around the screen and crouched in front of him.

"What do you want, Watson?" Holmes asked moodily.

"Are you all right, old friend?" I replied gently.

"Of course I am!"

"Don't lie to me! You are _not_ all right; far from it. Please talk to me, Holmes."

"There's nothing to talk about!"

"Oh? And what about what has transpired between you and your parents? You cannot just sit here and tell me that you are not affected!"

"I am completely unaffected, Watson, so leave me _alone_!"

My friend swiftly got to his feet but I was quicker: I sprang into a standing position and I threw my arms around him. Holmes gasped in surprise and tried to push me away, but that only resulted in having his arms pinned between our chests. He struggled to break free but I held on for dear life. I was not going to permit him to run away; not this time.

Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity of fighting, Holmes went limp against me, his forehead resting on my shoulder, and a tremor began to rack through his thin frame. I felt his knees buckle and I lowered us back onto the ground. Holmes did not return the embrace, but kept his arms firmly crossed and his gaze turned in the opposite direction. I ran my hand up and down his sinewy bicep, waiting for him to speak when ready.

"It hurts."

I looked at him. Holmes was watching me and for the first time his eyes showed how deep the wound ran. This was nothing my medical supplies could fix, and we both knew it.

"It hurts so much. Why does it, Watson?" Holmes said pitifully.

I will admit to you, the reader, that I was a bit at a loss. My friend had always been so strong, and to see him so broken was a concept I had not been fully prepared for, even if I had anticipated it. I was going to do my best to mend the heart that had been shattered so cruelly.

"This was the final blow, my dear Holmes," I replied. "All the pain you suppressed over the years built itself steadily and what your parents have said to you just now was the drop that made the glass overflow. It's perfectly fine to feel hurt, Holmes. Release the pain as you see fit."

"I do not know how," Holmes told me.

"It will come to you," said I. It was all I could think of saying.

And it most certainly did: as time progressed, I noticed that my friend was blinking more than usual. It did not immediately occur to me what was happening but when he screwed his eyes shut, it hit me. I quickly pulled out my handkerchief from my trouser pocket and turned back on time to see a tear escape from underneath a closed eyelid. It was my heart's turn to break for a completely different reason.

"Please, no," Holmes moaned. "Anything but this."

I gave him the handkerchief. Seeing my friend shed tears nearly shocked me, to say the least. I watched him battle for control, knowing that it was futile to inform him that control only made things worse.

"Blast it," Holmes said irritably, dabbing his eyes and wiping any stray tear. "This is why I abhor human emotions, Watson: they cannot be tamed! Look at me; I am a wreck!"

"You are not," I replied soothingly, rubbing his arm again.

Holmes laughed humourlessly.

"You honestly do not think that I don't know? I saw your expression when I started to – to – _cry_." He pronounced the word as if he had spoken it against his will. "It was like you couldn't dare to believe that I am anything more than a machine. So much for your depiction of the cold logical thinker."

"Keep going," said I, unruffled. I suddenly had an inspiration.

"But I know who would be pleased to see this: my parents! I can hear them now, 'Sherlock finally broke! Let's find a way to use this to our advantage.' They are unbelievable," Holmes went on bitterly.

Tears of anger were now making his eyes shine. I remained silent.

"All I have done was develop my skills as I saw fit. What was so wrong with that? Most parents would have supported their children but not mine. God forbid their high social class should be at risk!"

Rants such as this one are, as the reader knows, extremely uncharacteristic for Holmes. But please remember that he had been pushed to a breaking point; only a supernatural being could not have snapped despite everything that has transpired. I had to let him release the burden he was carrying.

"And they positively dote over Mycroft like he is the best thing in the world; it's sickening! Do not get me wrong: I have nothing against my brother and feel that he deserves all of his successes. But whenever he is near my parents behave like they do not have another son! _I_ would make a better parent and I am not familiar with children.

"The most incredulous thing out of all this is that Mother and Father actually wonder why I ran away from home twenty years past. I am being serious, Watson. The other night while you were in bed they asked me the question. 'Why did you run away, Sherlock?' I did not answer them. Why would I? If they cannot figure it out for themselves then they do not deserve to know. I will admit to you, old boy, that a miniscule part of me had hoped my parents had changed their ways despite the fact their letter proved otherwise. Obviously, that part of me has been proven wrong, and I absolutely cannot take it anymore! The pain is simply too much to bear."

Holmes drew breath and eyed me expectantly. I gave his knee a reassuring squeeze and smiled gently at him.

"Forty years," I told him. "Forty years' worth of resentment out in the open. How do you feel?"

My friend stared at me before looking down at himself, as if he could see what he felt rather than sense it. If the situation had not been so grave this would have been comical.

"I – I –" Holmes began, frowning.

"Holmes, deduction does not have a place in emotional matters."

"I know nothing else!"

"Close your eyes and look inside yourself. Permit yourself to feel, my dear Holmes."

He evidently thought I had taken leave of my senses but he obeyed me. He was frowning again, so I reminded him to not form any deductions. He merely grunted in response.

Finally, Holmes said, "It still hurts."

"The pain will take time to heal," I acknowledged, nodding. "But does it hurt as much as it used to?"

My friend shook his head.

"There you have it: by telling me of your troubles you have eased some of the burden," I said evenly.

"I only did it because you forced me," Holmes said surly.

"You will thank me later."

"Hmph."

Holmes suddenly leaned against me. I gazed at him in surprise, uncertain of how to react.

"I feel drained," Holmes declared softly, his eyes closed. "I blame you."

"Naturally," said I.

"I want to leave tomorrow morning. I do not desire to wait until Saturday."

"No; we shall leave tonight. I do not care if we must spend the night at the train station; I just want to get you out of this blasted house."

"You are a true friend, dearest Watson."

"I would never dream of being anything else."

Holmes smiled. We stayed that way for a while, my friend's slight weight creating a comfortable pressure on my shoulder. Our moment of peace was only interrupted by a knock on the door. Holmes sprang away from me with cat-like reflexes and eyed the door warily. I joined him as our visitor knocked again.

"Sherlock, open the door." It was Mycroft.

I looked at Holmes, who nodded. I approached the door and admitted Mycroft inside. The older brother paused before the younger and spread his arms wide.

"We are officially both disowned! Give me a hug, my dear brother!" Mycroft exclaimed triumphantly.

"What? Mycroft!" Sherlock cried as his brother threw his arms around him. "Get off me!"

"Come now, Sherlock. It's time to celebrate!" Mycroft said.

"Celebrate _what_?" Sherlock snapped, trying to wiggle free from Mycroft's grasp.

"We no longer have Mother and Father in our lives! We – hmm?"

Mycroft held Sherlock at arm' length and studied him carefully. "Your eyes are slightly red-rimmed. You have been crying."

"I have not!"

"Your flushing cheeks indicate otherwise. Am I right, Dr. Watson?"

"Don't you dare answer that, Watson."

"Do not fret, Sherlock. I am staying out of this one."

"Good."

"What will you do now? I doubt you will be remaining here for long," Mycroft said.

"No; Watson and I are leaving tonight," Sherlock replied, straightening his clothes. "What did you mean that you have been disowned as well?"

"Oh, I have put our parents in their place and they didn't like it. That is all," Mycroft answered, unconcerned.

"Yes, I heard the yelling before I came in here," said I, taking my place next to Sherlock, who was gaping at his brother.

"You've gotten yourself disowned _on purpose_? Why would you go do that?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

"Because I care far too much about my younger brother to sit idle and watch him be torn to shreds," Mycroft replied.

My friend looked briefly astonished and he glanced at me. I chuckled and said, "Some people _do _care, Sherlock."

"Indeed," Mycroft added lightly. "Well, I will leave you to pack. I will do the same, for I am leaving in the morning. I will wire for a cab for you at the same time as mine."

"Thank you, Mycroft," I told him gratefully.

"Think nothing of it. These last days have not been easy. Let me know when you're leaving."

Mycroft strode from the room, closing the door behind him. I turned to my friend, who was shaking his head, his hands in his hips.

"I should have known Mother and Father were as caring to Brother Mycroft as they are to me. What horrible parenting! If by some miracle, Watson, I become a father and I treat my children as thus, beat me over the head," Holmes said in a deprecating voice.

"With pleasure."

"Capital. Now let's put our things away and depart this dismal place."

I could not agree more. We swiftly packed our luggage and made our way downstairs, pausing to bid Mycroft goodbye at his room. We were almost out the door when Mr. and Mrs Holmes decided to make their appearance. Holmes involuntarily winced at the sight of them, and I prepared myself to defend him.

"So," Mr. Holmes sneered, "you are leaving."

"Congratulations on having acute observation skills," Holmes replied coldly.

"I thought it was agreed you would be here until Saturday?"

"Why would I remain where I am not wanted by the people who are supposed to be my family? You've got some nerve to say that to me after disowning me."

I lost track of the argument after that; I was watching Mrs Holmes. The lady was behaving in a peculiar fashion: she was kept looking back and forth from her husband to her son like she was following a tennis match, appearing anxious. It seemed that she was having an eternal battle. I was curious to know what it was about.

I did not receive the chance to find out. Something grasped my hand and I was hauled out the door, pulling my baggage with me. Holmes was dragging me away to an awaiting cab. The driver dealt with our luggage as we hopped inside.

"We are finally gone," said I with relief.

"I will not rejoice until that house is out of my sight," Holmes said tersely, his arms crossed.

I nodded as the cab lurched forward. I turned to look out the window. The mansion shrank away from us, and I was under the impression that this was the last time either of us would set eyes on that place and its residents.

**Holmes's parents are _harsh_. But what was up with his mother near the end? Find out in the final chapter!**

**Thanks for the reviews!**


	10. Chapter 10

The leaves on the trees were changing colours all around London. The cold was beginning to make its home in the City once more and the citizens were wandering the streets a bit more heavily bundled in warm clothing. It was a welcoming change from the stifling heat of the summer months.

Holmes and I were lounging in our rooms on Baker Street, five months after our visit to his parents' mansion in Southampton. Holmes's heartache had eased tremendously, but there were still some things he needed to sort out. I stood by him and guided him along the way to a full recovery.

"I say, Watson," Holmes said cheerfully, lying on the floor reading _The Times_. "Scotland Yard is losing its touch: there are robberies all over London!"

"I suspect they'll be calling on you soon enough," I replied warmly, sitting in front of him.

"Oh, but these thefts are so commonplace! Banks, jewels, various valuables. Amateur thieves, if you ask me."

"They are beneath your calibre, I suppose?"

"What do I always say about simple cases, Watson?"

"There is more often than not a complexity beneath the surface."

"Excellent, old boy. Excellent."

There was a knock at the door. Holmes and I looked at each other in surprise; we had not been expecting any visitors and by mutual agreement we had asked Mrs Hudson to not admit any clients for the day. What could be so important that the landlady disobeyed our wishes?

My friend told the caller to come in, and to our great shock it was Mrs Holmes who stepped inside. Holmes laid there gaping for a second before scrambling to a sitting position. I glided closer to him and protectively sat next to him, glaring at his mother.

"What do _you_ want?" I snapped.

"I understand I am not welcome here. But, please, I need to speak with Sherlock," Mrs Holmes said pleadingly.

"Anything you need to say to him can be said to me," I replied coolly.

"Fair enough." Mrs Holmes sat before us, her skirts pooling around her. Holmes eyed her warily, pressing himself slightly against me.

"Your father is in France on business so I have taken the opportunity to call on you. What needs to be said cannot be written in a letter," Mrs Holmes said meekly. "Sherlock, words will never be enough to show you how terribly sorry I am."

"You are forty years too late for that," Holmes said tensely.

"You think I do not know that? I have been a fool, my son. A bigger fool than all the criminals you have ever faced combined!" Mrs Holmes exclaimed.

Her eyes were sparkling with unshed tears. Were they real of just for show? I could not be sure.

"I have made a grave mistake: I permitted your father to dictate my behaviour. I have never believed for an instance for you to be strange, or to be a liability to our so-called reputation. In fact, I have always thought you were gifted.

"Your father was once a poor man, and he let riches have the best of him: he came to hate whatever he deemed to be out of the ordinary or threatening to his social class. I did not wish to be on the receiving end of his anger, so I stupidly followed his lead.

"I know this is hard to believe but I am so proud of you, Sherlock. I love reading of your exploits in the newspaper, and see you triumphantly lock another criminal away. Your skills of deduction are amazing, and I have read every single monograph you have published. Yes, I am familiar with your analysis on the forty different types of tobacco ash. You have a brilliant mind, my dear boy.

"I turn to you now, Dr. Watson. I want to thank you for taking care of my son. The loyalty and love you hold for him is truly remarkable. I tip my bonnet to you for standing by Sherlock through thick and thin."

Silence followed her monologue. I watched Mrs Holmes closely, seeking signs of deception but finding none. I wanted to believe her; I truly did. However, that horrible visit was vividly imprinted in my mind. I waited for Holmes to speak rather than reply to his mother myself.

"Why," Holmes said, his voice containing a barely perceptible tremor, "did you let him dictate your behaviour? You _chose_ to follow him. Why should I offer you my forgiveness for making my life a living hell? And, yes, you are right: Watson has been incredibly loyal to me. He has been more of a family to me than you or Father have ever been."

"I was young when I met your father; I did what I thought would make him happy. I truly believed that I was doing what was right. As I have previously mentioned, he only became this way after making his fortune and I, being the foolish girl I was, continued to do as he pleased in order to keep him happy even if it meant turning on the people I love. But disowning you and Mycroft was the final straw. I do not expect to receive your forgiveness, Sherlock, but I did want to have an opportunity to explain myself and to apologize for all the damage I have caused," Mrs Holmes replied.

"And now you have," Holmes said with finality.

He needed not to say more: his mother nodded and got to her feet. As she made her way to the door Holmes caught up to her and lightly touched her arm. Mrs Holmes looked at her son, blinking with confusion.

"If I choose to forgive you," I heard my friend say, "I will send you a letter within a month. If you receive nothing by then, do not bother contacting me."

His mother nodded again, and he permitted her to kiss his cheek before she left. Holmes closed the door behind her and rested his forehead against it. I picked myself up from the ground and approached my friend, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Is everything all right, Holmes?" I asked gently.

He walked past me without looking at me and retreated inside his bedroom. I followed him, glad to find the door unlocked this time.

"Holmes?" said I, peering inside.

"Here, Watson," Holmes replied, sitting on his bed. I joined him.

"How are you feeling, dear fellow?" I said in askance.

"I am at a loss, Watson," Holmes declared, placing his chin in the palm of his hands, his elbows on his knees.

"How so?"

"I believe every word my mother said, but the breach in my trust in her is far too wide."

"You cannot honestly say that you did not find her deceptive!"

"That is _exactly_ what I am telling you. Think, man! Did my mother avert her eyes from ours as she spoke? Did she force herself upon me? Why would she come alone when my father's leash on her is far too short?"

My friend had a point: Mrs Holmes had looked us in the eyes the entire time and she left the minute her son told her to. And there was certainly no possibility Mr. Holmes would have allowed her to come to Baker Street on her own.

"Besides, a small part of me has always known Father had some sort of hold on Mother," Holmes continued bitterly. "I remember pleading with her as a small child to free herself from his will. She had paid me no mind."

"She seems to regret it greatly. What will you do?" I inquired.

"I truly do not know; for once in my life I do not have the answer! What should I do, Watson?"

"That is not up to me to decide, but I can help. Start with what you want, which is…?"

"I want to trust her."

"Good. You want to have faith in her and for her to be a presence in your life. Do not look at me like that; you may not have said the words but they are implied. Now, voice what is stopping you from trusting your mother."

"Twenty years of cold treatment; twenty years of silence; a disastrous visit five months past."

"All right. Weigh them in your mind and trust your instincts, Holmes. They have never led you wrong before."

"My instincts are helpless."

"Give them time and they'll give you the answer you seek."

As predicted, Holmes was able to make a decision and by the end of the month he sent his mother a letter stating that he was willing to forgive her and start anew but as soon as she stepped out of line it was over between them. Mrs Holmes rushed back to our flat on the pretense of visiting some friends in Hampshire and nearly suffocated her son in an embrace. We went out to lunch with Mycroft, who was a lot more willing than Sherlock to have their mother back in his life. It had been a pleasant afternoon.

Mr. Holmes eventually discovered his wife was on speaking terms with their sons again, and it was not long before Mrs Holmes was staying with Mycroft due to 'unbearable circumstances' as she put it. I do not know what will happen to them now, but at least three out of the four Holmes are much happier. One could say that my friend and I do not _entirely_ regret our visit to the estate.

_P.S. Mother decided to leave Father in the end. She finally stood up for herself and did what was right. He refuses to grant her a divorce but she now has a lovely home in London courtesy of me and Mycroft. My brother and I are not in the least upset about this separation, in case the reader is wondering. Another one of Watson's tales have come to a close, and we will see you in the next._

_S.H._

_**The end**_

**Thanks for the reviews!**


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